


An Abundance of Father Figures

by starlightwalking



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Crack Treated Seriously, F/M, Fivesome - F/M/M/M/M, Innumerable Stars 2020, M/M, Multi, Parenthood, Túrin in Gondolin, Who's The Daddy?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-20
Updated: 2020-10-20
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:55:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27115726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starlightwalking/pseuds/starlightwalking
Summary: In which, somehow, Eärendil acquires more fathers than even Elrond.
Relationships: Eärendil/Elwing, Idril Celebrindal/Tuor/Voronwë, Idril Celebrindal/Tuor/Voronwë/Maeglin | Lómion/Túrin Turambar, Maeglin | Lómion/Túrin Turambar, Tuor & Túrin Turambar
Comments: 16
Kudos: 56
Collections: Innumerable Stars 2020





	An Abundance of Father Figures

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RaisingCaiin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RaisingCaiin/gifts).



> Inspired by a typo in your request, where you said: "What does Earendil's three-parent family look like? Or, for a possibly more funny angle, how do they know that Earendil is Turin's son by blood, not Voronwe's?"  
> ...and of course I took one look at that "Turin" where you meant "Tuor" and knew I had to write you a crack AU where he's involved too. And include Maeglin, of course, because I ship him and Turin like crazy, and his dynamic with Idril is super interesting.

“But that is wonderful news!” exclaimed Túrin, his face alight with uncharacteristic joy. The soft look in Maeglin’s eyes as he stared at his lover almost made Idril forget she didn’t trust him—almost. But then, what kind of hypocrite was she, inviting men she did not trust into her bed?

“This child shall be as fair and beloved as Dior Aranel,” Túrin said eagerly. “He is our kinsman, you know—Tuor and I are descended from the House of Bëor through our mothers, who are kin to Beren—”

“We do not know,” Tuor interrupted, flushing, and Idril took his hand, “if the child will be half-elven.”

Túrin’s face fell back into his normal gloom—and then he glanced to Voronwë, who hovered anxiously behind his lovers’ shoulders. “Ah,” he said eloquently. “Yes...I see now.”

And that would be bad enough, truly... Idril could never have foreseen _any_ of this, not a mortal husband nor a common-born lover to accompany him, and _certainly_ not a cousin of said husband and a cousin of her own joining them for a wild night of passion—stars, she barely remembered that night.

No, that was not true—she remembered it well, _too_ well. Watching her men together had been arousing enough, and truly that had been the plan, simply to watch them in their various combinations, and nothing more...but Túrin whined so prettily, and Tuor kissing Maeglin had made her cousin almost attractive, and then before she knew it Voronwë was supporting her as she consented to allow Maeglin to kneel and worship her with his mouth, and then Túrin and Tuor took her at the same time, and it hardly seemed fair to leave Voronwë and Maeglin so desperate to have her also, and she had at last relented and even _enjoyed_ Maeglin’s ecstatic sobs as he moved within her at long last...

It was an experience she would never forget. She felt herself growing wet just thinking about it.

It was also an experience she would never _repeat_ , and for very good reason.

Maeglin saw it now, blanching and looking almost ill as the realization hit him. And beneath that was a flicker of longing, of suppressed hope—

Idril closed her mind, aware that it was far too easy for them to see each other’s thoughts if they were not constantly vigilant. Too many times had she glimpsed thoughts he had not wished to share, or even to have; too many times had he done the same to her. He grimaced, looking away from her, and clutched Túrin’s arm, reassuring himself, almost.

“It is not only that I am wed to a Man and yet dally with an Elda,” she said. “It is also that I dallied once with _another_ Man and _another_ Elda...and that the timing aligns with the conception.”

“Oh,” said Túrin faintly, and now he, too, leaned against his beloved for support. The slightest breeze could topple them over, Idril thought. “So _I_ could...or Maeglin...”

“My child has _four_ potential fathers,” Idril confirmed glumly.

“But we enjoyed that night!” Tuor added hurriedly, even as Idril groaned. That was _not_ the concern right now. “Truly, we did, but...”

“I think I might faint,” announced Voronwë, who had been the first to realize their predicament, and then he promptly did.

* * *

Idril wept with joy when her child was born—and only half because his ears were small and nearly rounded. This way she knew he was half-elven, and there would be no drama in the court about the princess’s elvish lover—Voronwë was safe—and she would not have to endure the horror of having borne _Maeglin’s_ child. Of all the possibilities, that had been the one she refused to consider, for her own health (and the child’s).

And her baby boy was fair-haired: Tuor’s child, without a doubt, Voronwë exclaimed, and none could prove otherwise—but Tuor and Túrin exchanged a grim look, and Idril’s heart sank.

“I may be dark of hair, but my father...” Túrin trailed off.

“Both our fathers have golden hair,” Tuor said. “We are of the House of Hador Lórindol...”

“Then shall we _ever_ know?” Idril demanded. She would love Ardamírë all the same, but—

Túrin laughed darkly. “Do not forget that a curse lies upon the Children of Húrin, and not the Son of Huor who is blessed by Ulmo. If the babe exhibits signs of being under a great Doom...”

“In that case it may well be the Doom of the Noldor,” Maeglin drawled, and though they got along better now than they once had, Idril remembered why it was she disliked him so.

* * *

“I think he’s yours,” Tuor said to his cousin as they watched Eärendil play with his fathers-who-were-definitely-not-his-fathers. Maeglin and Voronwë had never had reason to interact before all this, but they got along surprisingly well—especially when it came to spoiling the child.

Túrin scoffed. “Absolutely not. He’s yours. Just look at that smile—that’s all you.”

“He could just be copying me,” Tuor argued.

“It’s as if you don’t _want_ him to be yours!” Túrin elbowed him sharply, and Tuor shoved him back. They didn’t look all that much alike, not truly, but the way they acted...they could have been brothers. In a kinder world, where the Fifth Battle had been won, they would’ve been, practically.

“I do—it’s just...” Tuor trailed off. In the courtyard, Eärendil tackled Maeglin, and he fell to the ground with a groan.

“Save me, Voronwë!” he cried, but Voronwë only rushed to aid the child in restraining him.

“He’s yours.” And the way Túrin said it, so serious, made Tuor shudder. “I know you never knew your parents...but I did. I was a child, but I remember Huor and Rían. You have your mother’s smile, Tuor. And so does your son.”

“Arguing about this again?” Idril interrupted, coming to rest her chin on her husband’s shoulder. “You know I don’t care.”

“We know,” the cousins chorused, but Idril understood why they worried. She _did_ care, though she tried not to.

* * *

“Hail Eärendil, son of Itarillë and—”

Eönwë broke off with a frown, peering closer at him. “Son of...who is your father, Child?”

Eärendil sighed. “Tuor Ulmondil.”

“But...” Eönwë pressed a feathered hand to his forehead, and Eärendil felt him probe within his mind. Abruptly, he drew back, more puzzled than before.

“And Túrin Turambar,” Eärendil added. “And Voronwë Aranwion. And Maeglin Lómion.” He shrugged. “It’s complicated, I know, but I had a happy childhood.”

“You have more parental fëa-bonds than even your sons,” was all Eönwë could say to that.

Elwing clutched Eärendil’s hand. “Our sons?” she demanded. “They—what has happened to them?”

“They're not dead?” Eärendil asked, hope rising in his breast unlooked for.

“They have two more fathers, now,” Eönwë explained, growing more uncomfortable by the second. “Ah...they have been adopted by the Sons of Fëanáro.”

Elwing gripped his hand so tight Eärendil thought she might snap it off like her ancestor Beren...or like Maedhros Fëanorion himself. Gently, he pried her fingers off.

“They will lack not for father figures,” he said unsteadily.

“ _Eärendil_ —!” Elwing hissed, and he knew she was reliving the Kinslayings in her mind, and the loss of her own brothers.

But though Eärendil sympathized—he did, truly!—he had often worried he could not parent his boys with the care his own set of parents had for him. Now, at least, that was not so much a concern...

“We will return to him,” he promised his wife, and Eönwë too. “But that they live, and have fathers—that is a good thing.”

He only wished his own fathers were here. Túrin and Maeglin had perished defending Gondolin; Voronwë and Tuor (and Idril his mother) had sailed West...perhaps now that he, too, had landed in Aman, he could see them again. And Maeglin could be reembodied—Túrin was gone until the Second Music, but—

“Come, Elwing Dioriel and Nimlothiel,” said Eönwë resignedly. “And come, Eärendil Ardamírë son-of-many.” (Itarillion, Tuorion, Túrinion, Maeglinion, Voronwion...) “Let me take you to Manwë my lord, King of Arda, so that ye may speak your piece.”

“For our sons,” Elwing whispered.

 _For my fathers,_ Eärendil thought, and followed the Maia to the Ring of Doom.

* * *

“We have _way_ too many grandparents,” Arwen groused, pushing aside the family tree. “And they’ve all got so many names!”

Elrond chuckled. “Wait until you get to the greats, my dear.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, and please comment if you enjoyed!  
> You can find me on tumblr [@arofili](https://arofili.tumblr.com/).


End file.
